Italian Blood
by dem-strawberries
Summary: Italy becomes emo when Germany won't...play...with him. He then begins to take on a very pessimistic way of life, including lots of blood and fun.
1. Chapter 1

Italian Blood

"Doitsu! Doitsu! Will you come to bed now?" shouted Italy from under the covers. "I even have the condoms and Vaseline ready like you said!"

Italy had waited all of WWII for this moment. This epiphany from Germany that Italy was the one for him. But every time he got close, Germany chickened out, using excuses like: "Italy, it won't slide if you don't use Vaseline." Or "We'll get AIDS if we don't use a condom." Who still cared about "AIDS"? Arthur and Alfred never used condoms, and as far as he knew (which wasn't very far) they didn't have AIDS.

"I can't do it Feliciano, I have to plan the invasion of Poland at the moment. Maybe when we win." What nerve. Ludwig had put this off too long. It was time to do something about it. And Italy knew just what to do.

"If you don't get your fucking ass over here, I will cut myself I swear!"

"You say that every time Feliciano. You know you won't really do it!"

"This time I will! You've put it off over 34 times, and we've only done it twice. I know because I tally them up. I actually went to Romano once. And you know what? _That_ felt good. You never let me lick your curl; you don't even have one! Anyways, I'm done with it! Where are the scissors I use for arts and crafts?"

Germany sighed. He knew Italy would never have the guts to actually let his own blood flow out of his veins. He was too soft and wouldn't be able to take it.

"They're in the drawer with the string and glue. Just know that you won't ever really use them!"

"Thank you Doitsu! I love you Doitsu!" responded Italy, thinking this might distract Germany for a while. He walked slowly to the kitchen, hoping Japan was out getting groceries so that he wouldn't see Italy's extremely small package. He peeked around the corner and noticed that Japan was nowhere to be found, and walked with a vacant expression towards the arts and crafts drawer. He opened the drawer with excruciating lethargy, and dragged the scissors upward, examining the dried glue on the side. He silently hoped that the insanitariness might give him an infection. That would teach Germany!

He held the scissors as Germany had taught him, the blade in his hand, pointing down, and dragged his feet to the bedroom. As he sat down on the bed, he thought of how much Germany hated him. He knew that he would never be enough for Germany.

"Whenever, I want pasta, he wants liverwurst instead."

Italy made the first incision in his skin. He opened up the scissors and slid them right across the top of his wrist.

"Whenever he asks me what to do if Alfred captures me, I don't answer correctly."

He made another cut. He felt the warmth flowing down his arm, splattering the bed.

"And worst of all, he won't impale me!"

At these words, he made the deepest cut of all, and felt a little bone beneath the sharp edge of metal. His arm was quickly turning red. It was warm and felt just like the thick white stuff that came out of Romano's penis.

"This isn't so bad Doitsu! You know, once you get past all the pain."

"What the fuck are you talking about Feliciano?" Germany said as if he was talking to a little kid.

"I'm talking about the blood on my arm that's quickly staining your baby blue sheets Doitsu!"

"What? You're lying Feliciano!"

"No I'm not Doitsu! Come and see if you don't believe!"

Germany sighed. This work _was_ tiresome. Maybe he'd see what Italy was up to and possibly pleasure him once he'd calmed Italy down. He walked to the bedroom and saw Italy sitting on the bed, his face twisted in pain, the scissors completely red from the blood on his arm.

"How could you do this Feliciano? You ruined my sheets! That'll cost a fortune to fix! You idiot!"

"I knew you didn't love me Doitsu!" shouted Italy, grabbing the scissors off the bed and slicing open another line on the top of his arm. "I can't do anything right anymore! I'm just not worth it!" The pain was excruciating, but Italy didn't care. He would do anything to punish himself for not being good enough.

"Feliciano stop! You'll die of blood loss if you keep it up!" Germany was actually scared by now, and not bothering with the sheets reached for the scissors, but Italy pulled them away.

"No Doitsu! I'm keeping the scissors, and there's nothing you can do about it!" Italy ran out of the room, leaving a trail of blood spatters in his wake. He ran and ran and ran, hoping that he might find Japan in the market.

On the way, he realized that everyone was laughing at him. The tears began to flow down his cheeks more quickly than the blood on his arm. This was not okay with Italy, and so he drew another line in his arm. It was only then that he realized why they were laughing at him. In his rush to get away from Germany, he'd forgotten to put on clothes. This just added to his fire, and he began carving a shape into his arm.

It was a swastika.


	2. Chapter 2

Italian Blood

Chapter 2

Three days later, Italy felt a little bit better. He didn't like the color of the scars on his arm, and decided that it hurt way too much to cut himself again. But this did not last long.

"(Japan)! What are you making for dinner? I hope it's pasta! I love pasta! Pasta is wonderful! Pasta is great! Pasta is beautiful when on a plate!..." Italy went on in his odd little song he made up months ago about pasta. Japan thought about answering his question, but realized that Italy would never hear it.

So instead he yelled, "SHUT THE FUCK UP YOU PASTA LOVING MANKO*! We are not having your fucking pasta, we are having rice and bread rolls, so stop singing and sit quietly while I make you dinner!"

Italy sighed. For some reason, no one ever wanted pasta. When would he get to make his favorite meal for everyone else? No one liked him. Obviously, his cooking wasn't good enough for everyone else, even if it was for him. All thoughts he had had of never cutting himself again seemed to fly out of his head and into the sky, as far away from him as possible. He ate dinner, pleasantly thanking everyone for the food, and then excused himself to "the bathroom."

However, he went in the opposite direction towards the bedroom. The sheets no longer had red stains on them, and were as blue as ever. He planned to change that. The other day, he had hidden the scissors in Germany's bedside table drawer. This he now opened silently, extracting the scissors and thinking about what was to come.

"Germany won't fuck me."

Italy drew the scissors across the first incision he had made three days prior. The blood trickled down his arm, tickling him as it went. This color Italy loved. A drop of water plopped down on Italy's arm, smudging the blood.

"Japan thinks I'm an ama!**"

Where there had been dried, brown blood on the scissors before, there was now fresh, bright red blood. Italy noticed it drop onto the bed sheets next to his tears but did not care. Japan was the one who had washed them, and he deserved it.

"And worst of all, my cooking isn't good enough!"

Italy savagely sliced his arm and allowed the hot liquid to pour down it. He leaned over and licked it off, relishing in the gore that was blood.

Across the hallway, Japan felt bad about what he had called Italy, and decided to apologize and offer Italy the chance to make his beloved pasta tomorrow night. After all, the dinner had been planned hours before at the market, and Italy hadn't said anything then.

"Ah well," he sighed standing up from his chair and walking towards the bedroom door. As he entered the room he began to speak: "Italy, I apologize for what I said earlier. It was inappropriate and not…WHAT THE FUCK!" He lifted his head to look Italy in the face, and a horrific sight met his eyes. "What are you doing Italy?"

"Obviously I'm not worth anything, so why should I have the pleasure of…wait what's the opposite of pain?"

Caught off guard by this question Japan answered with the first thing he could think of.

"Uh…pleasure?"

"Then, why should I have the pleasure of…pleasure…? I don't deserve it! I don't deserve anything! No, that's not true. I deserve punishment! And agony! And…what's the word for when you're really, really sad?"

"Uhm…sorrow?" replied Japan.

"No, I think it starts with an A."

Japan was so taken aback by these mood swings from Italy from crying to questioning, that he actually thought he was going through puberty.

"I don't know," he said, "anguish?"

"Yeah that's the one!" He resumed crying. "See? I can't even think of the right words when I need them and have to ask for your help!" He stopped crying again. "Thanks for that by the way. It's really helpful!"

"Italy," Japan asked tentatively, "are you going through puberty?"

"What's puberty?"

"Oh shit. Why did I even bring that up?" Japan said to himself, before continuing to say, "Italy, when a person grows up, they go through a thing called…"

"GROW UP! I don't want to grow up Japan!" His sobs miraculously became even louder than before. He wielded the scissors high above him, "The fact that no one likes my cooking isn't the worst, the idea that I'm actually growing up is!" He slammed the scissors down onto his arm, allowing the blood to spew forth, and releasing vomit from Japan's mouth.

"See Japan? I made you vomit. I do deserve this!" He continued hacking away at his arm as Japan kept retching beside him. "I'm over this!" shouted Italy, forgetting his coat on the way out into the night.

A few minutes later Germany noticed how quiet the house had suddenly become.

"Japan," he asked tentatively, "why is the house so quiet?"

"Italy is gone Germany. He ran out the door a few minutes ago."

"Why?"

"Something about…about…." His words were overtaken by bile from his stomach.

"Japan? Are you okay in there?"

"Yes Germany, I'm just horrified by the amount of blood on your bed sheets."

"Blood on my bed…That fucking idiot Italy cut his arm up again didn't he! My Deutch balls I hate that! I mean seriously! They're baby blue! You can't just go getting blood all over them now can you?"

"Well, it seems as though Italy can."

"Shut the fuck up Japan."

"Yes, sir." And the house was silent for the remainder of the evening.

* Japanese for pussy

** Japanese for bitch


End file.
